


crimson;iridescent

by vanitaslaughing



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Gen, M/M, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-19 14:43:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19975798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanitaslaughing/pseuds/vanitaslaughing
Summary: No matter how many times sundered, some souls are always drawn towards each other.Even if the apprentice and the historian are gone, the Architect knows inevitably he'll find what remains.[ARR-SHB oneshots set in the same continuity]





	1. washed-out colours (Emet-Selch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: n/a

“Ugh….”

“That is quite enough for the day.”

“No! Let me try again!”

Why precisely he had given in to that boy’s demands and tried teaching him on this fine day, he didn’t quite know. Hades was not known for being overly soft with children, least of all Cetus’ little partner-in-crime; Mira meanwhile had a reputation of being a crybaby even on good days.

Yet here he was, and the boy, bless his little stubborn head, was actually doing quite well. For someone who had the grace of an ox thrashing about in a glass house. But the untapped potential that slumbered within that boy was interesting. Neither of his parents had been great at creation, therefore neither was their son; but somehow Mira had managed to gain quite a lot of control over the environment. And he saw the colours of souls—marks of a healer rather than a destroyer. Yet here he was. Asking one of the most esteemed candidates for the title of Architect for a lesson in base magic.

It was endearing in a very, very strange way. It would be another hundred years or so before the current Emet-Selch would retire from her position; perhaps he could entertain the thought of taking Mira on as apprentice until then.

Hythlodaeus would be having a _field day_ with this. Hades dragged a hand down his mask.

“Trying again would be most unwise.” Idiot child. “Exhausting yourself further will put you in danger. No, we are stopping here.”

He used a tone he normally reserved for Cetus—Mira indeed froze, lowered his staff a little. There was this displeased scowl that stubborn children wore when something wasn’t going their way and they knew that their elder had a point. Cetus certainly wore that for things even as minuscule as being reminded to eat. But unlike Cetus, Mira did not talk back. He scowled some more, frowned, looked ready to demand another try… and then walked over to hand the training staff back.

“But—if you are willing, we can continue this another day.”

That answer seemed to surprise the boy; his mouth fell ope and Hades could _feel_ the joy bubbling up somewhere deep inside him. Hells, he could almost see the boy’s eyes light up; pros and cons of knowing someone because they were his son’s best friend. It made the colours of Mira’s soul shine even brighter than they already did.

“Y-yes! Sir! Thank you very much, sir!”

As it turned out, it wasn’t merely Hythlodaeus that had a field day with him giving Mira a chance.

Cetus rolled his red eyes with an amused snort—he said nothing, but Hades knew the judging stare. He’d seen it countless times before—after all, thank the very heavens themselves, the boy took after his mother. “Going soft, old man? Do I have to grab Hythlodaeus to get you checked out?”

“Not another word.”

A wide smile as Cetus jumped up from his chair, the book all but forgotten. Hades watched with a sigh as the boy hurried over to grab street clothing and his mask.

“Well, I can always just ask Mira if you’re going insane. Seeya!”

* * *

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

The flicker of brilliant iridescent colour, all yet none, at the very least stayed familiar—though very, _very_ painfully diluted. He had not exactly kept track of all the souls that he came across as he attempted to find worth in these fickle mortals, but some he knew existed. Those he found vanished from his Amaurot even if he never came across their souls again. And he had not seen this shimmering blob of colour since the end days of Allag.

A burst of energy that attempted to stop the mad conqueror, one of the people that riled him into attempting to smite them and so beautifully caused a Rejoining thanks to the unbound flare of earth aether. They perished in that event, the bright smudge of colour that was so underwhelming compared to the original gone in the blink of an eye. But as he now watched Elidibus’ latest attempt at getting rid of the pest that Hydaelyn had Her claws hooked into that people called the Warrior of Light, he noted that the leader of the bunch carried that same flare of colour. Of course, being a mere reflection, it was barely worth nothing. It was dull, lifeless compared to even just the barely rejoined one back when Allag fell. But there it was—he narrowed his eyes a little.

When those five left, he deigned rising from where he had remained out of sight.

“Pray run that by me again—what precisely is your purpose in sending those to the Source? In case you forgot, ‘tis thanks to them that Mitron and Lohgrif are in need of reflected replacements.”

“The Ardor, of course. With the same powers, perhaps they can overpower that pesky Warrior of Light.”

He rolled his eyes. “A single interference from Hydaelyn, and your plans lie in pieces at your feet. Those pale reflections are too easily swayed by hollow promises. Mark my words, Elidibus, you are making a grave mistake.”

He didn’t particularly care for a reply; ever since the Warrior of Light on the Source had managed to run Lahabrea over despite the fact that he had given that pitiful remnant of a once great warrior Ultima and Emperor Solus zos Galvus had died not long thereafter he had to admit he found little entertainment in hounding that issue. They could be used should the need arise, but much like any mortal they would not be alive for long. What were another roughly 100 years of agony on top of the countless millennia they had already spent like that?

Truth be told, he should have likely checked up on his darling grandson and his equally darling great grandson. Lousy mortals, the both of them, though Varis was inherently more fun than Zenos. The weight of a crown, and the like, he struggled a little to remember what else mortals bemoaned about royalty, the whole... whatever. Emet-Selch cared precious little about mortal politics right now; he was, after all, officially deceased. Old and dead and so many fun rumours about getting killed by someone before he could name a successor floating about. Oh, the people claiming that dear Varis had been the one had been downright _hilarious._

But as entertaining as Varis was, he could not forget that iridescent flicker.

“Do not even think about it, Emet-Selch,” Elidibus growled from where he stood. “There is naught to be gained from following your former little pet project about.”

“My, how insulting. As if I would follow a mortal about like a dog with its tail ‘twixt its legs.”

He had. Once or twice. More than that. He didn’t really remember. After all, he had spent a fair amount of time seeing if something constructive could be done with Hydaelyn’s little pet mortals. He wasn’t called the Architect for nothing, but by now he was almost ready to build everything out of their bones. Which, admittedly, had been their plan in the first place.

He did, however, make a mental note about lying to Elidibus. Those mortals he sent on their way just as they had sent the ones from the thirteenth around intrigued him. The other four were nothing too special, but that iridescent shimmer….

* * *

He did not have to look for them long. Even as dull and lifeless as it was, this fool boy’s soul shone like a flash in the dark across the drained landscape that he recalled had looked so very different once. Its name was long forgotten and in a language that no mortal except those that bore the Echo could replicate and Emet-Selch had little love lost for this place in particular. But the boy’s soul guided him to where these mindless drones made their hive. Watched as he and these four almost effortlessly slew the primal risen from base desire. Yes, even diluted there was no doubt in that one’s battle capabilities.

Some things truly never changed.

It wasn’t until something even brighter flared in the distance that he realised that souls that once were one had not met like this before. Would they instantly rejoin?

No, they wouldn’t.

Thanks to Hydaelyn single entities had been broken into thirteen and one and every single one of these hollowed out cheap copies was treated like a valuable, cherished creature. No matter the shimmer of these colours that were all but none, they were a cheap imitation of the sheer radiance he had beheld aeons ago.

But still, something about the seven times rejoined one caught his attention. It was more radiant than the one he beheld when Allag fell, but there was something… off. Something so brilliant that it could not belong to the man who now approached the ones Elidibus had so _skilfully_ dubbed Warriors of Darkness. It took him a moment to recognise what had dug its claws into that gleam—and when he did, he scowled and considered leaving at once. Hydaelyn. Of course. Who else but the infernal creation that the fourteenth had called forth; why would this infernal creation not choose to shackle this one to Her? After all… after all….

No, this was not the time to cry over things lost. The two of them had never openly opposed the Zodiark project and their support for the Hydaelyn project had been hesitant at first until they, too, fell under Her thrall. As far as he knew in any case. Neither of them were too keen on telling him things after Lord Zodiark so gracefully restored the landscape with a sacrifice.

But seeing that shimmering mix of colours without the stark red he had also seen after the fall of Allag once made his stomach churn. The apprentice without the historian was an upsetting sight, considering that they had been all but glued together from early childhood. He could almost _hear_ the giggles of children planning mischief thinking that their unfortunate victim was not aware of them brewing up something decidedly vile-looking with tinctures that were meant for something else altogether. How the two of them had ever made it past childhood and to nigh on seventeen millennia and then some before doom befell Amaurot and they never quite were the same again was a mystery—but it explained _so very well_ how the Warrior of Light of the Source managed to outdo them at every step and turn, even when cornered. Only the apprentice could be shrewd enough and handy enough with any weapon to turn a losing battle into a winning one, the fact that he seemingly had made friends with a gaggle of sundered scientists whose souls shone brighter than those of Elidibus’ latest pet project certainly helping him in matters concerning those who remained.

Part of him really wanted to see what the apprentice had turned into. He knew for a fact that Hydaelyn had called Her chief summoner upon the aetherial sea, just as those of Zodiark remained adrift in the dark that He left. Yet here he was, seven times rejoined, steadily approaching another part of his soul. Did he know? He had always been so eerily skilled with matters concerning souls back then once he grew up and out of attempting to master destructive magic.

Back then wasn’t now. Those pale reflections, even the rejoined ones on the Source, never knew matters concerning the united world. None recognised what turned into the arts behind Primal summoning. None recognised them, the former Thirteen. None recognised their traitorous fourteenth. Why should dear Mira recognise part of his own soul even as that shard in turn tried to kill him?

* * *

He caught the faintest flicker of deep crimson in the region that mortals called Mor Dhona. Like a starved dog he looked around, head turning desperately while trying to figure out where it came from. Mira’s presence was overwhelmingly choking in the settlement full of dull and diluted colours. Like a wildly shining crystal—he turned his head to the Crystal Tower in the distance.

The good thing about mortals was they paid no mind to adventurers or travellers with capes and hoods and what not. Even the very recognisable face of Emperor Solus zos Galvus, may he rest in the seventh hell that Eorzeans liked invoking so much, suddenly became yet another man in the crowd. Thus he blended in, head turned towards the Crystal Tower, eyes narrowed and the faint shine of crimson… gone.

Cetus had not precisely been present; whatever mortal flesh husk held his seven times rejoined soul now certainly had managed to _vanish._ Which, all things considered, was impressive. But this faint glimmer was the confirmation that he had needed to know that Cetus certainly was alive. Or rather, the horribly mangled parody of Cetus was unfortunately alive.

* * *

He would have guessed that the souls of those from the Source would perhaps be the brightest thing in the Crystarium—what a quaint name for a settlement. Those mortals were almost _entertaining._ But unlike Eulmore not too long ago, even Mira’s bright shine was drowned out by something he had not seen in quite a while.

It was true, the Scions' souls were almost violently more intense than the pathetic remnant of this dying world, but the entire Crystarium _bled red._ Bright, intense, overwhelming red of a shade that _felt_ a lot more familiar and complete than the Scions. It almost brought a nostalgic tear to his eye, the way Mira’s rainbow glimmered while Cetus’ crimson feverishly wavered about.

…

Wait.

_Feverishly?_

He closed his eyes to focus for a moment—and nearly jumped backwards. There were cracks in the red, haphazardly patched back together with something soulless that did not belong. Something… crystalline.

Iridescent shimmer, with accursed Hydaelyn’s light claws hooked into it; crimson shine with crystal cracks running through it.

Emet-Selch wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry.

He chose anger in the end. Anger and an extended hand.


	2. familiar (wol & g'raha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: n/a

“Oh what the—”

Warrior of Light, Hero of Eorzea, Saviour of the Savages, Primal Slayer—and Professional Exhaustion Specialist. A split moment of nodding off leaning against the wall, and his charge had all but sprinted off.

How exactly Lahen had found himself babysitting a man a few years his senior was beyond him, but he had enjoyed it until this very moment. His boots clicked on the stone floor, echoed loudly though the empty halls as he started calling for his missing companion.

“G’raha! Answer me, G’raha Tia, Rhalgr’s thrice-damned arse!”

It took him about an hour to find the scholar—after a handful run-ins with voidsent that had somehow evaded their first careful sweep of the area he had almost considered leaving and telling Rammbroes that unfortunately the Archon had gotten himself eaten by something. But just as he sighed to do exactly that, he caught a flash of red hair somewhere across the room. For a moment he wanted to stomp over and slap his fellow Miqo’te, but in the end he merely walked over and crossed his arms.

G’raha flicked an ear in his direction when he approached, then let out a laugh that might as well have been a childish giggle. _“Rhalgr’s thrice-damned arse?_ Colourful for the Saviour of Eorzea, I must admit.”

Lahen huffed and did not answer him.

“Though this is the first time I hear you invoking one of the Twelve—Ala Mhigan, are you?”

“And if I am?” There were plenty of people who were… less than pleased about that revelation. Quite a few would have expected the Primal Slayer to be someone of renown, or at least someone who was brought up somewhat decently. Not a wretch from Little Ala Mhigo, perhaps not burning with the same passion for Rhaglr as everyone else but with certainly enough belief that it seeped into his daily speech—and clearly marked him as some unfortunate luggage someone dragged out of a ditch as they fled Ala Mhigo. Not many people survived it; how precisely a terrified child whose tribal alignment was completely lost because he had not been able to speak managed to get out of it with one mildly messed up but still seeing eye and half an ear torn off was beyond most people.

G’raha certainly paused after hearing the defensive tone in his voice—Lahen knew for a fact his tribe had its roots in Ilsabard and many yet remained there, though G’raha himself had grown up in Sharlayan. His tattoos marked him as such. Just as the one on Lahen’s nose marked him as desert-born Miqo’te.

Then the scholar raised his hands. “No offence meant; ‘tis passing rare to see Ala Mhigan Seekers not involved with the Resistance.”

“Just as rare as Ilsabardian Seekers wandering off into voidsent-infested halls of a godsforsaken tower,” Lahen grumbled.

The historian laughed at that. “Point taken. Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

There was something immediately familiar about the other Seeker that probably warranted more than a raised eyebrow, but truth be told, he was content just sitting at Saint Coinach’s Find with crossed legs and crossed arms with books scattered on the ground and listening to G’raha rambling with his ear turned towards the other. Lahen wasn’t particularly good at or fond of reading—he had learned it, yes, bless his father for insisting on passing on that knowledge even as they lived in Little Ala Mhigo—but something about listening to passages read from ancient Allagan texts was comforting.

The other researchers in this place had offered them weird glances at first but by now those little meetings while some hired hands fully secured the Labyrinth of the Ancients had become a regular thing. Assuming, of course, that the Primal Slayer wasn’t out doing what he did best.

Fishing—not Primal slaying. Though hilariously his latest bout with a summoned deity had been with the Sahagin’s Lord of the Whorl.

Though, admittedly, the slaying thing took up a lot more of his time than fishing lately, and all things considered he quite enjoyed having company.

He ha dozed off by the time Rammbroes and Cid returned from yet another look at the guardians. They all had their interest in this; and the technology behind ancient Allagan death traps was certainly alluring to some. Lahen excluded. He could do without another death trap for the rest of his life; something that G’raha had laughed at when he mumbled that.

* * *

By the time he ascended the dizzying crystalline blue spires feeling perfectly at home with it he _knew_ something was up.

He chalked it up to the Echo—sometimes, just sometimes it felt as if he glimpsed into alternate realities where something went wrong and he died a horribly painful death. He’d seen himself drown, burn to death, die whimpering in a puddle of blood. But only with Minfilia had he ever felt this almost painful nostalgia as if they had met in a previous life. Minfilia, too, said that something about Lahen was familiar but the two of them never figured out what. They certainly had never met before the day he was invited to the Waking Sands despite their shared homeland, yet the two of them immediately got along as if they had been raised together.

With G’raha it was… similar. Though they butted heads more often than not. Some people at Saint Coinach’s Find joked about this just being general Miqo’te nonsense; they had a point with that but the resulting pouting match from both Seekers had been the laughing stock for a full week before people finally said that the two of them got along like fire an oil and the constant squabbling only added to the charm.

But there was something else that felt so painfully nostalgic that Lahen stopped dead on the stairs as they climbed it. The latest foray into Ishgardian nonsense capping with meeting a woman who whispered the same words that the Mothercrystal spoke had made him think. Something was going on in Eorzea, something that he did not like at all. Perhaps the Calamity had unearthed it as it had unearthed the Crystal Tower.

Once, just once, he had asked if G’raha had the echo. G’raha hadn’t replied and instead handed an opened book over and asked what the picture in it said. Eventually the words had formed correctly before his eyes, and G’raha had then shook his head.

“Ancient Meracydian predating the Allagan conquest is incomprehensible to me on a good day, and headache-inducing on a bad one. Does that answer your question?”

He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. At the very least it meant that the Archon would remain an Archon; and Archons best stayed away from Primals. On the other hand he almost wanted to ask for the occasional help.

But no.

It took G’raha a few moments to realise that Lahen had stopped—he eventually stopped a few steps ahead of him and turned around. Not a scowl. Not a frown. For someone as expressive as G’raha Tia, he certainly looked neutral right now. Mostly neutral. There was that slight crease to his eyebrows that betrayed the fact that he, too, was thinking about something rather intensely. Certainly something related to the Crystal Tower that they were climbing to meet with the rest of NOAH, the Ironworks hands that Cid gathered to ensure this would go off without a hitch, the Sons of Saint Coinach that Rammbroes also recruited to their case. The tower was their top priority with the strange lapse in things happening. Trouble was brewing on the horizon, and Lahen had a feeling that Ishgard would be spearheading that issue. The Mothercrystal’s silence towards him when she clearly spoke to Iceheart….

“Are you alright?”

He shook his head slightly and looked up at the other Miqo’te. Then slowly started climbing the stairs again. “More or less.” Lahen passed G’raha—and missed the almost irritated swish of the Archon’s tail. A moment later G’raha had grabbed him his wrist to stop him in place, nearly sending the two of them falling down the stairs because Lahen stumbled.

“Hey, what gives?”

He’d only ever seen G’raha frown that deeply when Doga and Unei had talked about clones—what they were, what their purpose was. G’raha had frowned back then just as deeply, wondering whether he was one of them or not. They claimed he wasn’t. He still doubted his own existence despite that.

“Before this eats me up entirely. Have we… have me met prior to you attempting to procure the crystal sand?” G’raha’s grip on his wrist tightened a little. “I feel like… I feel like I’ve known you all my life, despite… despite….”

Despite the fact that they most definitely had not met before that very day in Mor Dhona. The Shroud barely counted as a meeting, after all. But Mor Dhona had been the moment they met, even if since then Lahen had spent a good amount of time that he would have normally spent fishing or loafing about in the Rising Stones at Saint Coinach’s Find instead. Perhaps honing his reading skills with Allagan history books had not been a good idea, but it had been something he had done.

G’raha let go. Muttered an apology. It was almost endearing since it was so uncharacteristic for him. Lahen merely sat down on the stairs, frown on his face. He thought for a while, heard that G’raha also sat down and then after what felt like an eternity opened his eyes again. For the briefest of moments he thought he saw a flicker of bright red—gone so fast that it could not have been more than a hallucination or merely G’raha’s reflection in the blue crystal of the tower—and then he smiled a crooked grin.

“Once we dealt with the tower, come fishing with me. You’ll even get to pick the area. Skyfishing in Coerthas. Dunefishing somewhere in the Rhalgr-abandoned reaches of the Thanalan desert. Or just Silvertear Lake with the Keeper and the Agrius as backdrop. I know ‘tis hardly an adventure like this tower and its secrets, but y’know. Maybe we can figure out why the other’s so familiar then.”

For a long moment G’raha said nothing.

Then he merely broke into laughter as he stood back up, took another step or two up and sat down next to Lahen. “Knowing your atrocious luck, we are liable to drag something dangerous on land.”

“Can’t be nearly as bad as the time my father reeled in a sandshark with me sitting next to him, at the tender age of eight!”

Their laughter echoed a little strangely in the crystalline spires, as if it wasn’t built for something as idiotic as laughing at the thought of reeling in an ancient underwater horror. It wasn’t, a quiet voice somewhere in the back of his head said—but G’raha didn’t really care in that moment. NOAH could wait for a second. They weren’t exactly necessary for the plan, and if people got impatient they could always send Nero to get them running up the stairs. The Garlean was… interesting, to say the least. And he was very much not happy about the pair of Miqo’te being entrusted with the general historical research, the fact that G’raha himself was outstanding on the subject completely notwithstanding.

* * *

He left the old rod outside the Crystal Tower’s closed doors. Not on a whim. Not because he was so crushed that it could have made creatures made of dry stone weep.

But with Minfilia’s—no, the Word of the Mother’s—departure he had been made so painfully aware that both the people who invoked that nostalgic feeling were gone and out of his reach now.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/cleignewheat) | [tumblr](https://aethercurrent.tumblr.com/)


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